Begging the question

Got any gear? That was the first question I was asked, just 10 minutes into my begging stint.

After answering "No," the emaciated woman in her early 20s offered to sell me some.

She said: "I've only got a £10 bag. Do you want it?"

I explained that I had 2p to my name but hoped this would change over the next hour.

She seemed optimistic about my scrounging power and said she would be hanging around town for a while.

Like my choice of scruffy attire, I had selected my begging patch carefully. But the spot near Iceland in Havelock Square was already taken by a dishevelled man sitting on his coat and staring at the pavement.

So I settled for pitching up outside the £1 Book Box shop nearby. Head bowed, knees bent, I sat on my blanket with a baseball cap at my feet, waiting for donations.

But none came. At least, not for the first 40 minutes. Mums and dads pushed their buggies straight past me. Electric wheelchair users were even more defiant and nearly rode over my toes.

Men in suits couldn't spare me a glance, let alone any change.

Teenagers walked by totally indifferent. Only young children seemed to care what I was doing.

One little boy, after a long stare, said: "Look mummy, she's begging."

Mummy hurried him along and tried not to acknowledge my presence.

As a last resort, I started muttering that intensely irritating request: "Spare any change?"

I felt utterly degraded. This was so soul destroying.

How dare I sit on my bottom doing absolutely nothing, looking awful and expecting people to pay me for it?

"Are you all right?" asked a well turned out woman in her 30s, placing a pound coin in my cap.

"He's there for you, you know," she continued.

"Jesus cares. He saved me and he'll help you if you let him in. You should have seen me last summer.

"I had a terrible temper. I would be there tooting in my car like mad. I was violent too. Then I found him."

So concerned for my welfare, she gave me her name, Leanne, and telephone number.

At last the begging business was picking up, I thought. Then a man called Patrick sent me packing.

Pulling out a copy of the Evening Advertiser from his rucksack and pointing to the front page, he said: "You can't do that.

"Look: 'Get these beggars off our streets.' You're breaking the law."

Turns out Patrick used to be homeless and begged to feed his alcohol addiction.

After being fined £50 for begging, he went to the Citizen's Advice Bureau for help. Patrick now has his own flat and is off the bottle.

Determined to make more than £1, I decided to stick it (my cap) out a bit longer.

Within minutes a town centre steward busted me. He said: "Are you begging? That is contrary to section three of the Vagrancy Act. Please make a move."

It didn't take much persuasion. In spite of Leanne's goodwill my cap did not runneth over.

After moving to Regent Street I was suddenly quids in.

Perhaps sitting outside Cheltenham and Gloucester building society helped boost my fortunes.

Or maybe the sun inspired more generosity.

Within minutes of arriving, a man knelt down and placed a pound in my cap. "There you go darling," he said.

My highest donation was £1.50 from a pensioner who could barely walk and was probably struggling to make ends meet herself.

"There darling," she said before returning to her husband's arm. Trust a policeman to turn up just when I was on a roll.

He told me to take a walk and with that I went home to change my clothes.

Gazing at the pavement is a funny and for me frugal, way to make a living.

! made £3.81 in nearly two hours... and lost every scrap of dignity in my body.

All the proceeds from my begging will go to Cancer Research.

Victoria Tagg